


Vulnerant omnia, ultima necat

by Lord_Twinkle



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Blood Pacts, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Orphic myth, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Twinkle/pseuds/Lord_Twinkle
Summary: A Cursed retelling of the myth of Orpheus.Lancelot vows to return Gawain to his people. He is ready to go to any lengths. What will it cost him?
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. The White Oak

Where and how should we begin?

On the ruins of a battle ground or in the lonely field inhabited by the great white oak?

The moment is now, the battlefield is soaked in the blood of men, all dead or dying. The crows have come to obtain their share of the bounty. 

Lancelot sees none of it. He advances, despite the wounds that threaten to topple him. He fights against the body that tells him he will not make it another hundred yards. Lancelot is nothing if not his will to take the next step. He can only hope they bring him closer to the Green knight. The only thing giving him purpose anymore. 

The sun is rising over the thick smoke licking at the corpses and the dry grass, its slow crawl over the tree line the only sign of passing time. There is the silence where the birds and the crickets should have begun serenading the new day, but Lancelot hears none of it.

There is kneeling on the scorched earth, rocks digging into his already battered legs, his body begging for a moment's rest, but Lancelot feels none of it. 

There on the ground is the person to whom he owes everything. 

Every hour wounds, he thinks. Every hour wounds and the last one kills*. 

Gawain is dead. And it is Lancelot’s own doing.

The boy, Percival, silently cries over his body, whispering quiet prayers to his own gods for a miracle. Love, it turns out, is not enough - his gods are as silent as his.

Imagine him standing in a field. Now, everything is different. He has shed the name Weeping Monk, like he has shed his grey cloak. He has exiled himself. He will not return until he has done the impossible.

A moment ago, a crack of thunder split the great white oak before him, opening a doorway. 

As he steps into the darkness, there is no hesitation.

  
*Latin proverb:  Vulnerant omnia, ultima necat.


	2. Knocking on Death's Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot meets a deity

The tunnel left by the white oak seemed to go on forever. It went deeper and deeper, and soon, he lost his sense of direction, the smells of the outside world and the little daylight that had valiantly made its way into the darkness.

It seemed like forever when he finally made it into a hall larger than should have been possible. His eyes had adjusted to the different contrasts of grey and the echo of his footsteps let him know that the room stretched further than he could fathom. Still, he advanced.

He passed massive column after massive column cut right from the earth. Every once in a while, his boot would encounter the crunch of a piece of bone; animal, human and Fey. The place smelled of stale air, dirt and death.

When it seemed like he would get nowhere, his eye finally caught on a rise in the terrain. Approaching, he found that it was a pile of stones, rusty swords and armor, and bones that made up an imposing throne.

If it weren’t for his keen hearing, he would not have heard the brush of cloth on the floor and the delicate thud of bare feet. The next thing he knew, a cold grey light refracted along quartz hanging from the ceiling illuminated a large radius around the seat.

Before he could think, his body launched into action, furtively ducking behind one of the massive pillars, away from the light.

The steps continued their slow way to the throne. When they were close enough, Lancelot stilled his heart and dared a look upon the first form of life he had encountered in the tunnel.

It was a woman. Albeit, an incredibly large one - towering height and massive frame to match it. She was unnaturally pale with hair so long it brushed the floor alongside her blue robe. On her head rested a jagged crown of shards and mottled flowers. She took her seat with a commanding grace that left no space for interpretation: this woman was the goddess he sought.

“Approach, mortal,” boomed her voice, making his chest reverberate with the depth of it.

Her beckoning made his legs move by themselves. Before he could stop himself, he had stepped into the light and was facing the imposing figure.

The goddess hummed. “It has been some time since one of your kind has made its way down to my realm.”

Lancelot was a brave soul. Reckless at times. But, he had also spent a life praying to a deity that never answered. And now, he was faced with the divine in the flesh. He had expected exaltation, a joy so grand it would erase everything else. Instead, there was a sort of beauty in the onset of terror his body was merely capable to bear, a quiet admiration that comes when we encounter something so capable of destroying us but disdains the act. He fell to his knees before her and bowed his head.

“Well?” She demanded with impatience.

It took a while more for the ashman to find his voice. “Nantosuelta, goddess of all earthly things - ” he began carefully. The woman sat forward in her chair and drove her black eyes right through him, as if daring him to complete his sentence.

“Give him back,” he demanded unceremoniously, willing his voice not to shake - for all his bite, it sounded more like a plea than a threat.

All at once, the air filled with electricity. So much tension, it was hard not to flatten himself to the ground.

“How dare you demand something from us,” the gigantic woman spat, she rose slowly over him as she continued, emperious and terrifying. “You ignore our voices for years on end, fertilize our kingdom with the blood of your own people as a tribute to a God who despises you and then think to come and make demands of us?”

Lancelot swallowed his fear and trapped it into his hammering heart. 

“His people need him… I need him,” he admits.

The tension left the room all at once and the goddess crouched to her knees. All of his instincts told him to run when she reached for his face, but she only hooked a finger under his chin and let her dark eyes roam his face. She looked at him as only a goddess could - with apathy and too much knowledge. 

“What would you give me for him? What could you possibly offer, child of ash? You are nothing of no one’s, abandoned by all - the deities that made you, the God you adopted, the ones who raised you… And where are the people who gave you your name, child?”

Lancelot ignored the whirlwind of images and sensations that rammed into him every time the ashfolk were brought up.

“I would give anything, my lady. Anything.”

“You have nothing,” she said darkly, “your empty shell will serve me better than anything else, and for that, I need but wait.”

“I will not leave here without him,” he said with such defiance, it surprised even him.

A cruel smile spread on her plump lips. “So be it, mortal.”

With that, she sat again on her throne and melted back into the dark earth, leaving a passage that led deeper into the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiiiii :)
> 
> I don't know if this is anything, but if you like it, please let me know!


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